


Here Comes Alone Again

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: Fallen [3]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Prompt:Mikhail goes above and beyond jealous knowing his uncle has already tasted Feilong and he hasn’t (yet).





	Here Comes Alone Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlxwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlxwords/gifts).



> Prompt: _Mikhail goes above and beyond jealous knowing his uncle has already tasted Feilong and he hasn’t (yet)._

There are bruises upon his neck. 

Even beneath the hair that's carefully arranged around his face, the high collar of his _changshan,_ the concealer upon his skin, you notice them. 

You notice them when nobody does, because you're _always_ watching. These faint, shapeless outlines, ugly and grotesque upon the white of his skin.

The sight of it — the very _thought_ — is as much a turn on as it is repulsive. Desire is a familiar emotion. It races through your veins, makes your heart hammer this ridiculous backbeat against your chest. Makes anger — murderous and lancing-hot — churn bone-deep.

He wears these bruises like a necklace, like a tattoo, like a fucking _brand._ And no matter how much you want to, you cannot turn away.

Because _Yuri_ is the one who put them there. Because Fei Long _let_ him. 

And this is how it goes. 

Your face is blank. Eyes, cold. Body, nonchalant. Voice, casual. _Jocular,_ even. Hands in your pockets, hidden from sight. Maybe if he looked closely enough he'd see the outline of them, curled into fists, so tight you're sure to leave imprints of your nails upon your palms.

But he _wouldn't._

Because he never looks at you.

  


* * *

  


Somewhere along the way, you've become that guy you hate.

The kind of guy who always goes, _"I know how you feel."_

The only place you say it is in your head, though not voicing it aloud doesn't make it any less true. 

You — above all — _do_ know how he feels.

You know what it's like to make an ass of yourself, greedy and wanting and bereft of dignity, pulling yourself apart in this desperate bid for attention from someone who'd never return your love. 

_Notice me, see me, **choose** me._

_Love me, love me, love me._

It's so pathetic, you'd drown yourself in a puddle if you could. 

But this is how it goes. 

The whore in your bed is giggly and vapid and nothing like him. You turn her over anyway, fuck her in the ass and bury your face in her long dark hair, bury yourself in memories and fantasies that do nothing to ease the twisted, scorching ache in your chest.

  


* * *

  


Every day, you wake up and put on a face that isn't yours. 

It is the easiest, hardest thing, wearing a mask; and this is how it goes.

Yuri chides you about messing around, about your failure to obtain what you're supposed to seek. 

You smile. Ignore his jab about your Fei Long obsession. Ignore all that talk about beautiful Russian girls, and the hypocrisy of it all. You don't tell him you fucked one last night, while he was probably in a hotel or a car or a back alley somewhere — _who fucking knows_ — fucking Fei Long and stewing in self-loathing the way you were (the way you always _are_ ).

Keep that smile in your voice. Keep your hands on your book and your ass in your seat, 'cause if you don't, you just might kill him.

  


* * *

  


You feel sorry for the kid.

You really do, even as you trace the kiss marks upon his skin. Even as you picture Fei Long touching him, teasing him the way you're doing now. Even as you hate him. 

Denial would be too easy, but if there's one thing you've always hated about yourself, it's your inability to drown in it.

The truth is, you don't _care_ about the fucking deed. 

All you care about is Fei Long. Stubborn, prideful, misguided thing that he is, beautiful in all his sadness.

It is fucked up how much you want him. 

But it is not a truth you can admit to anyone else, so this is how it goes. 

You leash every raging, tumultuous emotion, keep every chaotic thought from your face. Your posture is authority meets hilarity. You try to break Yuri by trying to break the kid. You hate them all. Fei Long and Asami and Yuri and this poor, poor boy caught in the tangled web of unremitting denial and unrequited desire and the idiocy of men who refuse to admit what they really fucking _want._

So you hate and hate and hate. 

And you smile, smile, smile.

  


* * *

  


This is a pretty sad picture, three old men in a bar. 

Only, it's not a bar, but a baccarat table, and the only thing that's old about you is your heart. Your heart that's weighted and wearied most days from this relentless game of tag. 

You're chasing Fei Long. Fei Long's chasing Asami. Asami's chasing Takaba. Yuri's chasing — 

You don't know what Yuri's chasing exactly. Freedom, maybe. From guilt, from religion, from himself.

From Fei Long and all his irresistible, enthralling beauty.

You are all pitiable creatures and this is how it goes. 

You mock and you goad and you tell Fei Long to wake up and realize that Asami will never be his. You willfully ignore the jeer in your head that tells you to heed your own advice.

You lose yourself in the burn of your drink and the smoke from Asami's cigarette. The smooth slide of chips along the table. The tension that's thick between you like a fucking brick wall. The simmering anger and blatant want and the unavoidable awkwardness of it all.

You pretend that Fei Long's evasiveness doesn't annoy you. That his scathing opinion of you doesn't hurt. Pretend that none of this matters because it's all just a game. 

It's all a fucking game and you're not gonna leave this one unscarred.

  


* * *

  


It's amusing, really, the way he acts like it's a huge fucking secret. 

You hint about Yuri and — deceivingly casual — slide your shirt from your shoulder, reveal your scars. You watch him closely. His discomfort is apparent, but his lips remain stubbornly shut. 

You wonder if he knows that you know. You wonder if Yuri's marked him the way he's marked _you._ You wonder how long it'll take before the ticking time bombs explode and all this caves in on you.

You start a countdown in your head and this is how it goes. 

Asami's phone rings. Something's wrong. You feel it in your bones, know that shit's hit the fan even before the muzzle of Asami's gun is pressed against your head.

You keep it together. Calmness is easy when it's been forced upon you all your life. You've been keeping it together in the face of Yuri's fuck ups since you were a boy. You can hold yourself steady now.

You try not to think about dying in front of Fei Long. Your brains all over the baccarat table. Try not to think about how your blood might look upon his face. It wouldn't do to laugh. It wouldn't do to get hard right now.

You breathe. And you wait.

  


* * *

  


Here's another one of those clichés you've become, another kind you utterly hate. 

You're that guy who's always on the outside, looking in.

It's the strangest thing, watching all this drama unfold with an eerie sort of detachment, as if none of it's really happening.

Or maybe it's _you_ who isn't happening, _you_ who isn't real.

It feels like a nightmare-dream-out-of-body-experience and this is how it goes.

The roar of Asami's gun. Yuri falling over the rails. Takaba in Asami's arms. And Fei Long watching them, sure as you're watching _him._

And you see it — the moment he gives up. Maybe no one else notices, but _you_ do. You _always_ do.

You see all of it. The way his head lowers. The nearly imperceptible sag of his shoulders. The way his body stills. Minute changes, all glaringly visible to your eyes, like watching a flower wither in slow motion.

He _wants_ to die. 

And you stand, frozen in this moment while the world goes on without you. 

Takaba placing himself between Fei Long and Asami. Asami lowering his gun. The deed returned. Asami and Takaba leaving. Fei Long watching them go. 

And then, speaking to a man who you recognize as his subordinate. You've seen him before, by Fei Long's side. Their conversation is too quiet for you to hear, though you know it is not a pleasant one. The man offers Fei Long his gun. He takes it, aims at the man who does not flinch, then lets his arm drop. Defeat is evident in the way he holds himself. 

There are many things you should be doing. You should grieve for Yuri. You should talk to Fei Long. Find out what you missed and what the fuck's going on.

You should do _something,_ but all you can do is stand here, feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

Deep down you wonder if a part of you has given up too. 

You try your damnedest to staunch the confusion, the rage, the parts of you that want to scream and laugh and fucking _shoot_ something.

And you turn. Walk away with the distinct feeling that this _isn't_ how it's supposed to go at all.

  


* * *

  


It's been three years and four months since the casino ship debacle, and _this_ is how it goes.

You've got him pressed against the wall, caged like some savage animal. His are eyes that blaze with defiance. His body is tense against yours. His lips, curled into a sneer. 

You press your lips against his, this angry, violent thing. A kiss that's all your rage, all your want, all your damnable pride, unleashed.

He kisses you back. 

And you drown in the sweet scent of him, the taste of him that's bitter upon your tongue.


End file.
